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two
wistful | desire tinged with melancholy 
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THE WOODS WERE LIVELY as death. Steely clouds transformed into thunderheads and walls of inky menace, but the wind came to a halt. Upturned leaves refused to dance in the frozen air. Even the wildlife held their breath in anticipation. The scent of the oncoming storm danced in my senses.

Locke's thumb brushed the back of my hand, still gently within his grasp. "We're almost there. Not much farther now."

I'd lost count of how many times he'd said the same thing—any time I shivered from the cold or snapped my neck toward the slightest flickering shadow between the trees. Empathy must have flowed seamlessly through his blood. He picked up on my cues before I even recognized the tension in my own body. It was a lost art in my existence, something not practiced, but in another person's nature.

Until he came along, I'd questioned if it truly existed at all.

This time, however, his words were not in response to subtle cues in body language or used for comfort in the damp woods. They were spoken true, I realized.

A clearing spanned beyond the treeline not far ahead. Soft, buttery light radiated from bulbs wrapped by cord around a side porch. The wooden-sided home stood three stories, with a smoking chimney alerting the world to its presence. It was old yet pristine—a mixture of long-forgotten beauty and nostalgia that filled my chest with light. This was not just a place to sleep or eat while merely surviving the woods' animosity. It was a sanctuary for weary, beaten souls.

"Race ya!" Teagan's gleeful tone rang out from beside me. The small child giggled profusely as he ran ahead, weaving through the trees and jumping over roots in his path.

Locke let out a chuckle that reminded me of an autumn sunset, bright and richly whimsical as he called after his son, "Faster, Teag! We're on your tail!" A second laugh when the auburn-haired boy squealed and pumped his legs faster. "I think he's excited to have company. If his energy gets too overwhelming, let me know, okay?"

I couldn't imagine it being anything other than pleasant. Innocent, playful energy was a relief.

The small child careened through the treeline and across the freshly-mowed grass, past a tall silhouette that wandered with slow, lumbering steps. An older man with hair more silver than stars came to meet us halfway. Shadows shrouded his face, allowing only his graying scruff to be visible in the cloaked afternoon.

As we pushed through the final set of trees, the man raised his arms in greeting—and only too late did I notice the shotgun in his grip.

"Be gone!"

The first shell shattered thin branches high in the pine to my right. My ears rang and plugged as if they filled with water.

Locke pulled me behind him with a swift tug. "What the hell, dad? It's us!"

A rattling cough sputtered from the older man's lips. Wild eyes whipped from the trees to the sky, a few shades darker than his son's and void of the same kindness. He lifted the rifle again. The tremor in his fingers took hold, and his weapon clattered to the ground before he could fire another shot.

Locke's hand slipped away as he took off toward his father. The silver-haired man lost his balance, but Locke steadied him before the grass became his bed.

"The wicked night..." muttered the older man. Blinking rapidly, he gripped his son's sturdy arm. "A storm from hell will soon be upon us..."

Poised behind a thick-trunked tree at the clearing's edge, I tried to steady the rapid thrum of my heart. The older man's eyes bore into me now, every bit the devil I first feared Locke would be. Bitterness marred the lines around his twisted mouth. There was a bite to his tone and an unnerving cadence in his speech. It was far from the softness that Locke carried every time his lips parted.

As the older man's words fell to incomprehensible mumbling, Locke grabbed the rifle from his father's feet.

"We need to get you inside," said Locke with a tone breathlessly weighted by adrenaline. He met my gaze from my vantage point behind the tree, and his shoulders sagged. "I'm so sorry. You shouldn't have to meet my father this way." Shotgun in one hand, he used the other to absentmindedly tug at the hem of his soft gray sweater. "He gets confused sometimes."

The older man grasped at the gun, but Locke held it out of his reach. "I know evil when I sense it!" He wobbled on his feet, words slurred as he pressed harder against Locke's side. "I know it, I... I..."

His eyes glazed over, and he shook his head as if to clear it.

"It's okay." Locke's gentle tone rode the air like a whispered breeze. "Let's get you back to Mom. She'll be worried sick if she can't find you again."

Locke wrapped his free arm around his father's shoulder. The guilty smile he gave me said more than words. When he began guiding his father in the direction of the porch, where Teagan watched curiously from between the railing slats, I followed.

My bare feet met grass softer than what lay deeper in the woods. The well-manicured lawn was still cool with the mist that stopped only minutes before. Without the storm-driven breeze, the air was thick with humidity, and the dewiness beneath my steps was a welcome relief. I gripped the cuffs of Locke's flannel. It had quickly warmed to an uncomfortable degree, but while I longed to strip his clothing from my body, the remains of my dress brought hesitation.

The sky overhead provided miniscule glimpses of sunlight. An olive hue painted the thickening clouds.

"Come on!" hollered Teagan, who stood to pull on the wooden rail, heels upturned as he rocked back and forth. "I can smell Maw-Maw's cookies!"

I could, too. One long breath allowed me to drink in the scent of milk chocolate and wonder.

It was easy to imagine this being a home—my home. Filled with cookies and a bed and a family that took care of their own rather than burying each other alive. Whether it was my own family or an outside source that attempted to seal my fate in a wooden box, I was unsure, but something twisted in my chest. Whomever they had been, I must have known them well. I could feel it in the way my nerves lit up as I tried to remember the face that escaped my memory.

Locke pulled open the screen door and let his dad meander inside. After the older man entered the foyer, Locke put the safety on his rifle.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again, raking his fingers through his tousled hair. "I'll make sure it gets locked back up. We don't want him having this around Teag, not with..." His voice trailed with a deep sigh. "Not with his mind slipping."

Questions jammed in my throat like a silver dagger. The searing pain returned, and my saliva turned to razor blades as I swallowed.

Sympathy panged in Locke's ivy eyes. "Come inside."

I hated that look. The sadness to his tone. It was empathetic and caring, but it seemed he had enough on his plate without feeling sorry for me.

I stepped past him and gingerly entered the foyer. The shredded remains of my skirt swiped gently against my legs as Teagan rushed past, auburn hair bouncing with every skip. Past the entryway of hardwood floors and paneled walls spanned a living room that was simple yet cozy. Rustic decor smattered the area, with a brown upholstered sectional and two gliding rockers for comfort.

The smell of fresh-baked cookies perfumed my senses, now strong enough that my mouth watered in response.

Locke shut the screen door with a soft click. "Mom is more welcoming, I promise. No shotguns."

I took a deep breath. No shotguns aimed at something evil. A storm from hell, the older man had insisted, though his haunted eyes had lingered on me as if I were the roiling tempest. Chills enveloped my body that had nothing to do with the air conditioned home.

As Locke led me to the kitchen, I studied the home's interior. The midsize flat-screen mounted above a barren fireplace looked newer, yet the mint cordless phone hung beside the stairwell was outdated even before my burial. It made sense for a house in the middle of Wailerun Woods to be a mix of modern and classic. Maybe centuries hadn't passed after all.

"Oh my!"

I snapped to attention at the soprano voice that called from a cut-out portion of wall along the back of the living quarters. Two white-painted wooden stools accompanied the bar-like window, where an old-fashioned country kitchen stood beyond.

An older woman, roughly the same age as Locke's father, leaned over the earth-toned marble. Salt-and-pepper curls framed a face of smile lines and sun spots.

She disappeared as quickly as I noticed her, whirling away from the bar and reappearing in the kitchen door. A blue and white floral apron hung from her slender frame. She slipped a pair of coral oven mitts from her hands, and clicking nails on the hardwood floor proceeded a dark snout gripping the material. The woman laughed and gave a gentle tug. A large dog wagged its tail playfully, standing past her hip and swishing a tail of charcoal and mahogany fluff.

"Locke?" she said after giving the dog a quick pat on the head. "Who's your friend?"

Though her words bounced with playfulness, her leery gaze revealed hesitant layers beneath her smile. But it was not the stone cold glare her husband gave me—her softened sea glass eyes held the same unfortunate sympathy as her son.

I bit my lips shut. I couldn't risk speaking, not with the horrendous pain that would follow. The dull ache throbbed within my throat to remind me of its presence. Whatever had happened to me—whatever they'd done to me—left me without a voice. I didn't want to think about its potential permanency.

Thankfully, Locke spoke for me, "I don't know her name yet, but she needs our help. She was in—" He stopped himself, and the hitch to his breath was as apparent as his far-off stare. "I found her in the woods."

He conveniently left out the coffin and the strange voice that haunted my every step.

But the woods had been empty. While the voice had come from everywhere and nowhere, Locke nor Teagan had reacted to it. Perhaps I was the only one who'd heard it.

Had it even been there at all?

I tried to shake the thought. Instead, I pulled Locke's flannel tighter across my chest as his mother stepped closer.

"The humidity may be suffocating," she said, "but once the storm blows through, you'll need more than scraps to keep you warm. Our weather changes more than the birds change their song." She extended a hand, wrinkled and worn with time, but her fuschia nails exuded the same youthfulness as her smile. "My name is Eileen, and my husband is Sylas. And this little gem"—she nodded to the large dog at her side—"is Hawthorn. The best thorn in your side you'll ever meet."

Hawthorn's amber eyes shone with as much joy as his tail, bouncing back and forth as he sniffed at my feet. For such a massive pet, his gentle temperament seemed unfitting.

I shook Eileen's hand with a loose grip.

"Locke, why don't you show her upstairs?" Eileen slipped her oven mitts back on just as the sharp buzz of a timer sounded from the kitchen. "We'll give her space to clean up. There are some of Stephanie's clothes still in the spare room, if you don't mind lending them."

Locke's shoulders went rigid. But as quickly as he froze, he nodded and motioned toward the stairs. He kept his eyes averted while leading me to the second floor. While he offered soft, one-sided conversation about the paintings that lined the stairwell—all done by his father—the light had been snuffed from his expression.

And, for the first time, I preferred to stay one step behind him.

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